Watson's dream
by Love is a Mayer
Summary: John keeps having a recurring dream that is ruining his life. Sherlock is the only one that can help him through it when a crime scene makes John break down.
1. Chapter 1

It was mainly the hot light that scared John to death. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he wiped it away. He was used to the salt, used to the burn, and he couldn't risk taking his eyes off the scope long enough to wipe them. It didn't matter, anyway; there wasn't a part of him that wasn't drenched in sweat or covered in sand.

He blinked again.

It was bright, too. The sun seemed to love bouncing off every surface straight into his already- burning eyes. Through the scope, everything was magnified. Everything was sharper, more intense, and more _real._

In a way, everything was better like this: through a scope, from a distance.

Especially when it all went to hell.

John woke with a thud.

A slight pain coursed through his bad leg when he connected with the underside of his bed. It hurt like hell, but was only slightly worse than the rest of him. He laid his head back down, rubbing his eyes. He had the dream again, only this time, it didn't end like the others; this time he saw the mangled bodies blow up into tiny pieces, and then disintegrate into nothing.

Just the thought of the dream made John want to throw up, which would've been better then sleeping on the floor and sweating to death.

"You had it again, didn't you?"

At the sound of his voice, John flew up, hurting his back even more. "How did you..." John began, "You know what, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. You fell off your bed which is an improvement from the screaming, though I didn't mind that," Sherlock said, watching as John picked himself off of the floor.

"You didn't mind my screaming? Quite frankly, I minded it very much." John wandered over to his dresser and began sorting through his clothing for the day. He needed something comfortable, but practical seeing as how Sherlock no doubt picked a case for the day.

"Well, that's because it was you. I found it very soothing, especially since it reminded me of a murderer." Sherlock gave John a small smile, patting the older man on the shoulder. "You know, it might help to talk about it, I've heard it to be true."

"Yeah, well you should be telling yourself that. Now, can you please leave, I don't feel comfortable undressing with you in here."

"Already ahead of you, and John?"

"Yes?"

"Hurry, we have a case in ten." With that Sherlock ran down the stairs, giggling the whole way.

"Of course we do."


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the _long _wait everybody! I just didn't have enough inspiration until now. Well, here's the next chapter, enjoy :D And also, thank you everybody for reading and liking it^_^ Your love has helped me through this chapter. Though, i don't feel like I hit Sherlock's personality good enough. Meh, it'll have to do.**

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"It's right over here." Lestrade ambled up towards Sherlock and John as they hopped out of the cab.

"Has anybody tampered with it yet? I can't find clues if it's been muddled with, especially by Anderson."

"Hey!" Anderson shouted from the upstairs window.

Lestrade ignored the bickering between the two as he pulled Sherlock to the side for more information. Without a word, John stepped out of the cab, slightly off because of his limp which had reoccurred after the dream. Most times, the dreams came and went without him remembering, and especially without awakening the war scars. But for some reason, the one he had that morning was the worst one yet, and there was no Harry to help him through it, no parent to hold him while it happened. He just had Sherlock who had no human emotions at all and couldn't even comprehend what John was going through.

"Come on John," Sherlock said, snapping John out of his reverie for the moment. Sticking his lips out in concentration, John huffed before trailing behind his flat mate.

The body was of a young child, about ten years old. There were no scars of adolescence on his face, and he had a fake tattoo of some rubbish child show on his left cheek. It was, for all the world, the saddest thing anyone had ever laid eyes on. No one dared step over the threshold to see the body if they could help it and John didn't blame them. He actually kind of didn't want to see it himself.

"That's a bloody shame, killing a child," Lestrade murmured, as if from far away.

"It had to be done. The killer had no choice seeing how little possibility he had if the child was alive. A child's memory is twenty- five percent greater than the average adults; therefore the kid would have made a link eventually." Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves before bending down by the body. His long, slender fingers moved across every inch of the child, leaving nothing untouched.

"The body hadn't been here long, maybe two hours. There's a slight pinkish mark on his wrist, obviously from a skirmish with his attacker, and then there's the problem with his real age."

"Real age?"

"Yes, Lestrade." Sherlock got up off the ground and fixed the DI with a sour look. "His real age, how could not have seen it. Your papers say ten, but obviously that's wrong. Our killer doesn't go for five year olds; most likely another criminal that loves children, but this one's much more fun. He purposely left the kid's body here as a signal, brilliant."

A weird noise bubbled up from John's throat at the sound of Sherlock's enthusiasm. How could a child's death excite him so?

Neither Lestrade nor Sherlock noticed it however, and began to talk in quiet whispers, as if John wasn't really there. And maybe he shouldn't have been for all the help he was giving. It was just really hard to even _think _straight when your chest felt tight and cramped. Sweat began to pool on his top lip, and his breathing came out in short, little gasps.

John began to glance around the room, suddenly feeling as if the world was closing in on him. Suddenly a hot pain clutched at his heart, and a white light passed through his vision. He didn't want to be in that room with the dead kid, knowing that somehow, some way he could have saved the boy, like he should have with his team in Afghanistan.

John's mind went blank with the thought. He couldn't remember why he was there, or why they were standing around a little kid's body in an empty storage house. John took a panicked step backward, his eyes flicking between the two strangers staring at him with worry, and the body they were inspecting.

And then all at once, as if someone had flipped a switch, John snapped. His heart thudded painfully in his ears as the fear became a full on panic attack equipped with a round of hyperventilation.

"John? Are you okay," the taller of the two asked, taking a step towards the scared doctor.

John started backing down the hallway, his eyes blurry and unfocused as he tried to make sense of everything.

"I – I don't k-"John stammered out, unsure of where he was going at the moment.

"I think you should sit down."

"Sit down? Sit down? I think you should be the one sitting down," the blonde man spat, sounding crazier than scared.

The ferocity of the answer scared Sherlock a little bit, causing the detective to stop his advances. John rarely ever showed his anger, and when he did it was usually a bad word or two and a punch into the wall. But never, did his flat mate sound like a wounded dog being cornered, and somehow that thought made Sherlock uneasy.

"What's going on," a voice said from behind, startling the panicked John into an even worse state. Without another word, he shut his eyes against the onslaught of tears and shoved passed Anderson, running like hell out of the building.

"God, good going Anderson," Sherlock snapped angrily. He rubbed his tired eyes, finally feeling the unnecessary sleep begin to take its toll. But he wouldn't let it take him under this time, because somewhere there was a hurt and scared doctor running around blind. And this time he wouldn't stand to the side like a stranger, this time he would help John through the pain.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Well, thanks again everyone for reading this and following it!^-^ This is the last chapter for this story, but I will be doing more in the future, hopefully. I love the way this turned out,so enjoy :D And don't forget to review, they are love!_**

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John didn't know where he was going to go, but hell, if he didn't get out of that place now then he was going to go mad. He took the stairs two at a time, the heat in his chest never ceasing and always reminding him that he could have done more. He didn't speak or make any noise as he ran out of the building because he didn't trust his voice. All he needed was one comforting gaze to let loose every feeling he had ever hid since his time in the army.

Once outside in the biting cold air of December, John didn't look back as he ran away. The cold was frigid on his clothes as he moved, but it was nothing compared to the freezing ice water in his veins. He wasn't upset now, and wasn't having a panic attack, which should have been good, except that John Watson was falling into self-hate, something he'd thought he'd beaten years ago.

After the explosion in Afghanistan two years ago, when John had left the hospital, and after he had time to mull things over, he had berated himself repeatedly about what happened with his comrades. Every day after that, he'd wake up and fall deeper and deeper into depression. And it would've killed him too if Harry hadn't helped him out of it. He always thought, after that horrible period of his life, that it'd never come back and that maybe he could live a fairly normal life. But everything, all of this- it was eating a hole in him. _He_ was wrong. Was wrong for ever getting a thrill off of cases like Sherlock did, it wasn't right for him.

Buildings and people become one big blur after an hour of mindlessly running around. He didn't look at them, just kept his head down so the strangers couldn't see the shame written there. Mind numb and racing all at once, heart somehow shattered and pounding, he used his long legs to carry him down the street to an empty alleyway, where he finally collapsed onto a mound of garbage bags that smelled horrible.

The sun had set considerably, reminding John that he hadn't had a good night's rest in forever and he had just run over two miles without stopping. No one was coming for him, and surely not Sherlock. He was so tired, so sore… he just wanted to close his eyes and leave everything behind, and the garbage bags made an excellent cushion to say the least.

"Oh God, please let me live!"

John hadn't even known he'd fallen asleep until a horrible shout resonating around the empty alleyway startled him awake. It was ragged, it was desperate, it was frightened and it wasn't until he couldn't breathe that he realized he'd been the one screaming.

After a couple of minutes, the dream finally faded, leaving him with the quiet London night, and the realization that he is all alone in this world. Sherlock hasn't come back to him and will never do so.

A sharp gasp broke from the blonde man's chest before he let his head fall. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms protectively around his shaking form to try and stifle the wracking sobs that had taken over. He could feel the sweat that made his light blue sweater stick to him, but couldn't find the will to uncling it; just couldn't find the will to do much more than cry and rock back and forth. It wasn't until his sobs had reached their peak that he heard footsteps on the cobble rode ahead of him.

Thud- thud- thud- thud, like knives in his battered, tortured mind.

_Great, I'm going to die unknowingly at the worst time._

He didn't look who it was because somehow, somewhere in his mind, he could hear Sherlock say something about not letting his death be boring. In some weird way, it could be his goodbye to the detective to go out the way the man had always planned; not boring.

Thud- thud- thud-thud, whoever it was had gotten closer, and then all at once everything happened as if from far away. John shrunk back instinctively as the stranger bent down behind him, grabbing him around the waist; hands go through his sandy blonde hair, ready to expose his throat for the knife blade.

_Goodbye Sherlock,_ he thinks with deadly fear while awaiting the sharp stab of pain across his neck.

But it never does come. A minute passes by, and then another until he realizes that he's bloody alive. Though, the high of the realization doesn't stick around for long when he feels his heart slamming painfully against his ribs as he heaves in sobbing breaths of air, reminding him that he was still having a panic attack, even if it had been masked by fear.

"John? John, it's okay. It was just a bad dream."

_It can't be…_

But it is. There's no mistaking the dark curly hair_, _beautiful pale skin, and warm brown eyes. John uncurls and looks up at Sherlock, his eyes still not completely focused, still trying to find the line between real and fake in the ruins of his nightmare.

Slowly he looks down, not sure of his voice at the moment. "Sherlock…..why are-why did you come?"

Sherlock runs his slender fingers across John's back in soothing circles. "Because, I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. I saw you run away and I- I don't know." Sherlock ran an agitated hand through his curls.

It's all John can do not to grab Sherlock's face and snogg him right there, but he didn't because he knew, knew that Sherlock didn't have any human emotions and wouldn't have tolerate anything of that nature. That was the idea anyways, before the consulting detective smashed his lips to the shorter man's. They sat quietly in the darkened alleyway, passionately kissing each other until Sherlock pulled away, looking a little sheepish.

"Are you okay," John asked. He was afraid that Sherlock had been getting second thoughts about the kiss, and if that were the case, he didn't know how his heart would take it.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. Fine. That, ah-thing that you did. That you um, with your tongue. That was, uh, good.

John laughed briskly, still feelings the after effects of his panic attack. His head was still covered in a thick sheen of sweat, and his hands trembled, but how much of that was from the kiss was uncertain.

"Brilliant," he murmured before crushing his lips to the detectives again, a smile stretching wide across his face.

Sherlock stooped his head down a little. John closed his eyes, shutting the outside world out just for that moment so no doubts or worries could ruin the heated moment between the pair. They lay in a dirty alleyway and kissed.


End file.
